Nathan Honour

Jiminy Christmas

Sean King

Bryce Frohn

English

Silently, I tiptoe through the flowerbed - taking extreme care to not damage the tulips. I pass by the window and see her, she doesn’t see me. I continue to the willow tree and carefully hide myself amongst the canopy of its draping branches and reach for the binoculars.

In her delicate, dainty yellow linen, she nestles-- slim legs curled, small back leaning against an adjacent willow, and a fragile pinky shoved up a petite nostril. I stifled a gasp when the finger shot out, and her auburn, feathered eyes seemed to force existence to the mass.

I’d never seen such a large nostril extraction. It was bulbous, slimy, and greenish-yellow. She carefully examined it, turning her finger. Then she smiled. I kid you not, the mass opened an eye and blinked at her. She giggled.

The tiny eye rolled toward me. A second lid peeled open beneath it. She whispered, “Oh, you’re awake.” The thing wriggled, sprouting two threadlike arms that clung to her fingertip. Then, from deep inside her nose, something else blinked.

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